


Just another peaceful holiday

by WinryWeiss



Category: Tintin (Comics), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Indiana Jones, it is so typical for him, like an old married couple, seasoned adventurers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinryWeiss/pseuds/WinryWeiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holidays with Tintin are anything but calm or, Heavens forbid, boring. Poor Captain could tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just another peaceful holiday

**Author's Note:**

> So, this might need some explanation. This whole scenario is based on certain scene from Indiana Jones, which, I think, can be recognized from first two lines, although they are (slightly) modified. It is not a crossover. Tintin & co. are just way to adventurous to avoid situations like this.
> 
> No slash, but I think, that those, who would want to see hinted Haddock/Tintin probably would be able to. Or Haddock & Tintin in father-son relationship.  
> Haddock's POV
> 
> Beware - misuse of language (informal English, yay, I messed it up). Oh yes, absolutely no beta or proof-read.

“Lad!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Lad!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“LAD!”  
  
“WHAT?!” comes slightly irritated reply.  
  
“Think something up ALREADY! Before out asses will burn to dust!”  
  
“I'm trying! Stop diverting me!”  
  
The room filled with heavy white puffs of smoke as the cracking of the fire grew gradually louder.  
  
 _This was just brilliant._  
  
Well, but what else you'd expect from holiday with Tintin? Troubles. Big troubles. Or rather Terrifying Troubles, that's what these two T's must stand for.  
  
And it started as such a nice holiday. Fine weather, lovely place, nice people. And, as a bonus, Calculus away on some scientific meeting. Finally a time for relax and letting the steam out. Before Tintin get a hook on a story. And an international group of smugglers.  
  
Talkin' 'bout the steam ...  
  
I always tell the boy, that he will set himself afire, but this is just friggin' literal!  
  
How the blue blistering barnacles did we get into this situation?!  
  
I know! _Of course_ I know. I'm with him long enough to know.  
  
To know very well.

 

When he came to my room on the third night of peace, I only thought : “Ooooh great. Here we go again.”  
  
Since he only comes to me so late, eerr, so _damned early_ in the morning, when there is adventure against the horizon. Plus, he had THAT smile.  
  
“So,” I lit my pipe, suppressing a yawn. “What did you sniffed out?”  
  
“Do I look like a dog?”  
  
“ 'orry. What did Snowy sniffed out and you discovered?”  
  
And he told me. Serving it on a silver plate with a plan ' _how to sneak in a secret base unnoticed to gain evidence and unmask the leader_ ' as a dessert.  
  
Yeah. The plan gone wrong. As usual, nearly at the end. And as usual, due to my clumsiness.  
  
Perhaps I should learn how to tell Tintin a strict NO.  
  
But I have the feeling that he wouldn't listen.

 

So we ended up locked in a cellar. Tied with a fine rope and perfect knots to old screaky chairs, and to each other, back to back. Whilst Snowy running for a help. And the leader of the gang just boasting about. How is he sooo clever that his minions captured the famous intrepid reporter.  
  
 _He had no idea._  
  
But, he soon got bored from our lack of reactions and left with a promise, that he would think something special for us. After that, he tried to laugh maliciously, but failed miserably as he got a coughing fit.

 

After a while it seemed safe to proceed with the escape improvisation.  
  
“Tintin.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Could you reach my pocket?”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“The one I hide matches into.”  
  
“Oh.” He smiled. I just know he did. “Rather interesting idea, Captain.” He started to shuffle around, trying to reach for the box of matches.  
  
“All those years of practicin' yoga finally come handy, huh?”  
  
“Hnnn,” he replied as I felt his fingers slip inside my pocket. “Didn't imagine I'd use it this way.”  
  
“You little liar,” I breathed out with a smile.  
  
“Why, thank you, Captain.”  
  
After a little more shuffling, he lit first match and accidentally burned me a little. I merely shifted. “Carefully, boy. This will take time, 's a fine rope.”  
  
“I'm afraid, I'll utilize the whole box of your matches, Captain.”  
  
“Go boldly ahead, m' boy.”  
  
“Aye, sir.”  
  
For a while, the slow burning of the rope, used matches falling to a shaggy carpet and new ones ignited were the only sounds filling the room.  
  
Suddenly, a painful hiss came out of Tintin's lips followed by an : “Oh, crumbs.”  
  
“What? What did happened?”  
  
“Well ... ” he said reluctantly after a while, “It appears that I set a ... wee fire.”  
  
“ ... You ... WHAT!”  
  
“I just threw away the used matches. And the carpet, apparently, flamed up.”  
  
He was calm. How the hell could he be so calm, when there's a campfire underneath us! But again, this is Tintin and he got nerves of steel.  
  
I heard, and felt, how he tried to blow the flames out. And then ... The distinctive sound of something wooden and bigger catching fire. I cursed. This is getting better and better.  
  
“Uhm, the table is now on fire too.”  
  
“Oh, really?” YER TELLIN' ME! “ 'orry, lad, I forgot to brin' sausages to roast.” I managed with steady voice.  
  
He giggled. “I think, Captain, that w...” He was stopped by a 'blff' sound from a fire.  
  
“Oh,” He said. Surprised. “The fire spread to the cupboard.”  
  
I wriggled furiously against the ropes that tied us to the chairs.  
  
“ ... AAAND now to the tapestry!” he exclaimed.  
  
“STOP DESCRIBING WHAT ELSE IS ON FIRE! Make a plan!”  
  
“Fine! I'll think up something.” I sensed him wriggling around. And almost heard the cogwheel in his brain turning.  
  
But the minutes mercilessly ticked away. The fire grew stronger and I more nervous.  
  
“Lad!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Lad!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“LAD!”  
  
“WHAT?” comes slightly irritated reply.  
  
“Think something up ALREADY! Before out asses will burn to dust!”  
  
“I'm trying! Stop diverting me!”  
  
“Ya know,” I said after a while with my thoughts running wild. “I believe yer time is flamin'.”  
  
“ _Oh_ , head for the fireplace.”  
  
“Ya bein' ironic?”  
  
“No, I merely don't see anyplace better. Move.”  
  
So here we are, shifting towards an old, unused and enormous fireplace which would make any castle proud.  
  
“We are lucky, that this place is so big.” Tintin says in between shifts.  
  
“Would be a miracle if those chairs wouldn't fall apart.” I reply, with conversational tone.  
  
“Oh, they won't, Captain. Trust me.”  
  
“And how could you possibly know?”  
  
“We are not THAT lucky.”  
  
“True.”

 

That fireplace is a friggin' secret entrance!  
  
Sometimes, our lucky star has really twisted sense of humor.  
  
When we hopped inside the hearth, my chair sorta gave up under my weight, and with a loud 'krcht' one of the rear legs fell off. I yelped, struggling for balance, Tintin took a sharp breath and threw himself in opposite direction in attempt to steady us, or, at least, cotton our fall. Which send my legs high in the air, kicking the stone wall somewhere in the waistline height. Hitting hard, and hitting probably the one and only moveable stone out of the ten thousands thundering stones.  
  
That stone which start the mechanism.  
  
Instead of expected pain came a loud click as the whole inner part of hearth started moving, rotating on hidden cogs and wheels which screeched rustily. Cutting us off from the flames into the safety of adjoining room.  
  
Sometimes, being clumsy has certain advantages.  
  
“How did you did it?” Tintin asks, amazed.  
  
“It was an accident, I swear.” I proclaimed.  
  
He laughs, rests the back of his head against my left shoulder and breathes out all the stress he has been holding back till now.  
  
I lean towards him as far as the rope allows. Just cooling off for a moment.  
  
But it's a high time to tie up the loose ends.  
  
“Ya know,” I say, nuzzle him a little. “I bet a new typing machine that we won't get out of this alive.”  
  
“And I bet a bottle of Loch Lomond that we will.” He grins, finally shrugs off the rope and quickly grabs the fire-poker, the only 'weapon' in near proximity.  
  
“Shall we go, Captain?” His eyes are gleaming, that inner light which only adventures turn on.  
  
“I'm right behind you, lad.” I couldn't, and most importantly, I don't want to fight that idiotic grin of mine, which he _always_ digs out with that look. 

 

To be 'onest, I quite enjoy holidays with Tintin.  
  
They'r never boring.

But I'll be damned, if I ever admit it to him aloud.


End file.
